Chapter 49 (Filler 1/4): The Warning
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Fun fact: The poll results from last chapter look like someone giving the middle finger. Thank you for that.

Detective Fred Sierra loosened his tie a little more and took another quiet sip of his scotch and dry. Seated next to him, Detective Alan MacArbre did pretty much the same thing. Across from the two muscular vice-squad detectives, George Barry and the club owner Perry Gilbert were seated at Perry's desk, their drinks standing idly by on the oak top. To their left, Seraph Thorne sat quietly in a chair in the corner, staring at the floor and absentmindedly scratching at a scab on his hand. Leslie Mason and Billy Tuttle had entered the office about two minutes earlier and were comfortably seated in two leather chairs to Perry's right, holding their drinks in their laps. No one was talking. No one was laughing. Thursday night at the Prince Club had finished almost an hour ago. The money was counted and put into the safe, the club was locked up, and the staff and gamblers had drifted off into the night. Outside, the city was still alive in its own gaudy way, but at 4 a.m. on Friday morning, the atmosphere in Perry's office was deadly serious.

Perry took a light sip of his drink and looked over at Detective Fred. "Alright, Fred," he said easily. "Now what's the business you were talking to me about on the phone earlier? There's trouble coming down from the north. Is that right?"

Detective Sierra ran his finger around the rim of his glass and stole a quick look at his partner. "That's right, Perry. There's going to be a hit on you this Saturday night. Right here in the club."

"And it's Vince Rossiter," Perry said. Detective Sierra nodded his head solemnly. "Mm..." The greying middle aged man drummed his fingers lightly on top of his desk. It was so tense and quiet in the plush, roomy office you could distinctly hear the ice cracking in George Barry's still untouched drink.  "And this mug Rossiter says he's going to do it this Saturday night. In here."

"We know he's a mug, Perry," replied Sierra. "There's no two ways about that. But he's also as mad as a meat axe."

"He's gotta be," grunted Leslie Mason, the brawny redhead. There'd been a bungled attempt on Perry's life by two mixed-up hitmen from the north about four months earlier. Luckily, Leslie had thwarted it. As soon as Perry found out who it was, he sent down his own personal assassin Seraph to deal with them. Apparently, Seraph had somehow managed to shoot both of them and dump their weighted bodies in the bay. One of those bodies belonged to Vance Rossiter - Vince's twin brother.

The Rossiters were a close knit, not very intelligent, but highly feared family. The two brothers, Vince and Vance, were about as inseparable as they were extremely violent and unpredictable. Vince in particular was reputed to be bordering on insanity. They were used as bagmen by a group Seraph had dubbed 'The Goons', and they'd been involved in a number of unsolved shootings. They also specialised in armed robberies on the side, and Vince, as slow as he was, was a master of disguise. By sheer intimidation they had managed to stay one step ahead of the law. But at the time of Vance's disappearance, the police had finally managed Vince on account of assault and malicious wounding. A hotel owner had asked him to leave the hotel, so Vince put a glass in his face and beat up his wife. When he got news of his brother's disappearance, Vince almost went mad with grief. When he found out who was responsible, he vowed instant revenge as soon as he was bailed. It didn't matter to him that his dim-witted brother had tried to kill one of the heaviest men in the country of Armastus. He would have his revenge, and since his brother was gone it didn't matter to him if he lost his own life in the process. He had confided all this to one of his cronies in jail. The crony told the warden, the warden told the right police and now it had finally gotten to Perry. 

"And how long has this Rossiter clown been out of the nick?" asked Perry. 

"Just on a week," replied Detective Sierra.

"What makes you so convinced he'll have a go this Saturday night?" asked George Barry.

"He was heard bragging about how he was going to celebrate him and his brother's birthday right under the so-called Armastus heavies' noses," said Detective MacArbre. "We've run Vince's record through the computer and it turns out this Saturday is his birthday. He hasn't been sighted since Wednesday, so you can bet your bottom dollar that's what he was on about and he doesn't care if he dies doing it. We're not dealing with a rational human being here Perry. Vince is a mad dog."

"He's certainly got some front, I'll give him that," said Perry, adding a contemptuous laugh.

"The thing is, Perry, we can only do so much," said Detective Sierra. "There was nothing the boys up in Northtown could hold him on, and it would've looked too obvious if something happened to him as soon as he got out of the can. By the same token, if there's a gun fight in here or out the front the papers'll get a hold of it, shit'll come flying back on us, we'll have to do something and there'll be trouble for everyone."

"You can say that again," Perry grimly replied.

"What you do is your business," said Detective MacArbre, flashing a quick glance at Seraph who was sitting impassively in the corner, still looking at the floor. "To be fair dinkum, if Vince Rossiter disappears you'll be doing everyone a favour. But you're going to have to be extremely careful and very, very, discreet."

"Mm," mused Perry. He paused quietly for a few moments, then smiled. "Alright Fred, Alan," taking two manila envelopes from the large oak desk. He slid the two fat envelopes across the desk. "There's a nice drink there and there'll be another one up here for you next Thursday night when all this is settled." 

The two detectives rose from their seats and picked up the envelopes. "Just make sure you're here next Thursday Perry," said Detective Sierra sincerely, slipping the envelope into the inside of his jacket. 

"That goes for me too, Perry," said Detective MacArbre.

Perry smiled, stood up and shook the two detectives' hands. "I'll be here next Thursday," he winked. "I don't know about your mate Ro-shitter though. I'll see you then. Good night lads and thanks again." He turned to Leslie. "Les, will you let the boys out?"

"Sure." Leslie got up and ushered them to the front. No one said a word while he was gone. They were still sitting there silently for him when he returned roughly five minutes later. Perry waited until Leslie was seated before he spoke.

"Well, there it is boys," he said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them lightly. "This prick from Northtown's going to get here on Saturday night and try and neck me. I know it's a pain in the arse but we're going to have to knock him." He glanced quizzingly around the sombre faces of the office. "Any suggestions?"

There was silence for a few seconds, then George spoke. "Why don't you just not be here Saturday night," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. 

Perry shook his head. "I can't be doing that George," he said adamantly. "If I start running away from every shit-pot bloody hood that threatens me I'll be doing it all the time." He took another sip of his drink. "Besides," he added. "I'd rather get it over and done with, one way or the other."

Leslie spoke up. "If you tell me what he looks like, I'll let him in and get him on the stairs and break his neck. Then we can just dump him and bury him somewhere." He took a look around the room and at the others. "That's one way of doin' it, ain't it?"

"It's certainly a thought Les," Perry said with a light laugh at Leslie's casual but serious idea about how to kill a man. "But I'm not sure what he looks like and you could cause a ruckus. It is one way of doing it, though." Finally, he turned to Seraph, still sitting quietly in the corner. "Well kid, what do you reckon? You're in charge of the killing department. Got anything on this Rossiter imbecile?"

Seraph scratched at his knuckles for a few seconds before he spoke. "Uh... yeah. I've, uh... I've met him," he said softly.

"You have?" said Perry as every eye in the office riveted on Seraph.

"Y-Yeah... Ran into him and his brother a couple years ago... They... um... they came to collect on my, uh... father's debt."

"What's he look like?" asked Billy Tuttle.

"Oh, uh... maybe five foot ten, um... short black hair... H-He has a square jaw and green eyes."

"You reckon you'd be able to tell him if he came in here though?" Billy asked. "Remember what that copper said. He's an expert in getting done up in disguise. That's why they can't pin those bank jobs on him. And you can bet your life he'll be just about unrecognisable on Saturday night."

"D-Don't worry, I-I-I'll know him," Seraph replied. "I, um, had to, uh... I broke his uh, collarbone... with a bat... trying to escape... Apparently it uh, never set properly... so he walks around with a... um, one of his shoulders dips below the other when he walks..."

"And you're certain that will enable you to recognise him on Saturday night?" Price sounded a little sceptical. 

"Y-Y-Yes, Sir," Seraph awkwardly nodded. 

"So what do you intend to do?" Price asked.

"Mmm... Nothing," Seraph said. "Just let him in like anyone else you want to let in."

"Let him in?" everyone chorused in shock.

Seraph nodded, smiling a little in response to everyone's surprise. "But, um... if it's okay... Could I have Mister Leslie help me?" he sheepishly asked. "I think he'll like what I have planned."

"That's no problem," Perry said. "I can put Danny on the door with Billy. But are you sure one bloke will be enough? I'll get a dozen if you like."

Seraph shook his head and denied the offer. "No thank you. Just one is enough."

"So you reckon I'll like this?" Leslie's eyes lit up and he grinned as he vigorously rubbed his hands together. "Bit of CIA stuff, eh? Posion blow guns? Death rays? Or are you gonna get done up like a ninja and come down from the ceiling on a rope?"

"Not quite," Seraph chuckled. "But you'll like it. It's a good one."

"Yeah? Can't wait for Saturday night. I'm looking forward to this."

Suddenly, Perry shot up and glared at Leslie. "You're looking forward to this!" Perry bellowed. "I've got some fuckin' psychopath coming in here to try and kill me on Saturday and you're looking forward to it! You fuckin' hillbilly, I only wish one of my suits fitted you; I'd stick you in it with a grey wig on your big boofhead and put you in charge for the night. This Rossiter asshole might think you're me and shoot you instead, you bloody bogan!"

"Hold on Perry," Leslie said, holding his hand out in front of him. "I didn't mean it like that."

"In fact, I might even do it myself. Right now." Perry started rummaging through the drawers in his desk. "George! Where's that bloody .45?" Despite Perry's outburst, a ripple of laughter and relief ran throughout the office, which relieved Seraph because he thought Perry was being serious. Since he was already up, Perry got everyone a fresh drink (he got a soda for Seraph) and handed them around. "All jokes aside Seraph," he said as he eased himself back into his chair. "Just what do you reckon this Rossiter will try and pull on Saturday?"

Seraph took a sip of his drink and started crunching on an ice cube. "I think he's on a suicide mission," he casually said. "He'll probably come in here, see you, and open fire with whatever he's got. Probably a couple of automatics, possibly a machine gun as well. He'll indiscriminately kill as many as possible before he gets shot himself, figuring that if he makes a big enough scene it'll be the end of the club. The publicity in the papers will finish it. " 

"Jesus, you can say that again," shuddered George. 

"It's okay," Seraph said. "As soon as I see him, he'll be dead three seconds later."

"Three seconds?" Leslie asked, thoroughly intrigued. 

Seraph just smiled and nodded his head. He didn't elaborate any further than that. All he said was that he'd organise the corpse disposal, tell them more details later tonight, and that there was nothing to be worried about.

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